


Madness

by clandaestine



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Attempted Murder, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Avengers Family, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, IronDad and SpiderSon, Kidnapping, Medical Inaccuracies, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker Has a Family, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Protective Avengers, Protective Tony Stark, Ransom, Tony Stark Acting as Harley Keener's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Torture, Whumptober 2019
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-09 00:03:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20985500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clandaestine/pseuds/clandaestine
Summary: Tony has been Iron Man almost all his life, but he finds being a father to bring out the real hero in him.





	1. Isolation

**Author's Note:**

> Whumptober 2019 Day 1: Isolation.  
Warnings: Violence
> 
> Posting this out of order because I switched up these two days (also because I got lazy)

**Isolation**

The water dripped from the pole to the dank floor.

Fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty. Tony’s eyes traced the path of the droplets from ceiling to floor. One, two, three, four . . .

The constant drip-drop that had once driven him mad was now his only consolation. It was the only way he had a sense of time. The room had no windows, no doors, no clocks. No glimpse of the outside world. It had a single sliding compartment that was permanently locked, leaving him trapped in the room. At the bottom was a padlocked flap through which his meals came. They sat gathered on the floor, untouched. Soon a gloved hand would appear through the flap to clean up the mess.

Tony’s eyes watched the sliding door, waiting. He had counted down to this moment for the past three days. Each minute meticulously calculated by the rhythm of the drips. That had meant no sleep, no food, and barely any water. Of course, Tony had no way to actually measure how far apart the drops were. He only knew that once every five hundred eighteen thousand drops he would not be alone.

Like the clockwork Tony worked so deliriously hard to keep up with, the man came into the room every three days (by his calculations). He was a tall man, with a lean build and an uneven gait. He wore long black coats to hide his body. Flashes of white would sometimes peek out from beneath before he noticed and quickly hid it again. His hands were wrapped in sterile gloves.

Sterile, cold, and perfectly calculated. Like clockwork, Tony saw the hands reach in and gather the uneaten food trays. The man sighed from the other side of the door. He could hear those elegant, gloved hands fingering through a set of keys.

A horrible screech sounded the empty space as the door slid to the side. Tony had tried, many times, to overtake the man, to knock him out, or run past him to the outside world. He had only ever gotten as far as around the pristine white corner of the hall before he ran into the guards. Dressed in all black and tall like their counterpart, but with heavy bodies and a sturdy step. These were not men to be messed with, as Tony had learned, and they were armed to the teeth.

He could see the shadows of the men peeking around the corner as the man stepped inside and closed the door.

“Mr. Stark,” he spoke evenly. His eyes searched Tony’s thin, weary body. “How have you been?”

Tony did not answer. His eyes remained trained on the man, waiting.

“You are not complying very well,” he narrowed his eyes. “You know what that means.”

“No!” Tony gasped, throwing himself at the man’s feet. He wrinkled his nose in disgust and kicked the desperate man away from him.

“I see you are coming around.” The man surveyed the tiny room, barely big enough to fit a grown man. In the weeks before, it had been smeared with the food from the tray, with utensils and ripped up paper plates being thrown around.

“Let me see him,” Tony pleaded. He reached out to grab the man’s leg but wasn’t fast enough as it was snatched away from him.

“Don’t touch me,” the man snapped. “Be good and I might let you.”

“Please, just – it’s been so long. I’ve waited so long.”

“You poor man, now have a seat and let’s talk about it, no?”

The man settled the single plastic chair, the only furniture in the room, in the centre of the tiny space. He coughed and sat down, pulling out his clipboard and fountain pen.

“It’s been nine days.”

“Good. You have counted.”

“Nine days.”

“Perhaps, Mr. Stark,” the man mused as if he was a philosopher, “If you had not tried to attack me we could have had a visit on the scheduled day instead of having to delay it. That’s what you get for acting out.”

Tony looked down at the ground in defeat. They had taken away two visits due to his outrage. He kneeled on the ground in a show of submission.

“I won’t do it again. Just let me see him.”

The man analyzed his face for a moment, searching for any hidden tricks or plans. He saw only a tired man, with a tired mind. Tony looked at him with his most pleading gaze until the man sighed and pulled a tablet out of his inner pocket.

Tony practically lunged for the black screen as soon as he saw it. His fingers clawed at it greedily as it came to life. He held his breath as the video blurred for the first few seconds. It focused and unfocused randomly before finally settling in.

The room was turquoise this time. The walls were a bright shade that didn’t seem to really fit. The camera was set up in front of a small cot. Tony smiled as he saw the familiar mess of curls burrowed underneath the covers. The blankets were thin and scratchy and barely large enough to cover his body, but he was sleeping and he was safe. Tony let out a trembling breath.

“Thank you.”

He reached out to pet the boy’s face through the screen, as if he could touch him. Tony didn’t even really know if the video was pre-recorded or a live feed, but he could feel the human connection through the network.

His skin was so pale. Tony frowned. Was it the effect of the lighting or was he sick? His breath sounded uneven over the speakers. He wanted to reach out and feel his forehead temperature, but sat on his heels in agony that he couldn’t. The bruises from last time had faded. Was Tony going crazy or had he filled in a little? Maybe he had had more to eat.

“Mr. Stark –”

“Not now,” Tony urged impatiently. “Later.”

The man huffed in annoyance, one hand reached for the tablet. Tony drew back immediately and clutched it to his chest defensively.

“Tony,” the man said in a stern, reprimanding voice.

“No,” his voice broke as he protested. “You promised you would let me see him.”

He sounded weak and broken to his own ears. It was humiliating, and perhaps in a different time a different Tony would have burned in shame. But now, all he could focus on was his boy.

He felt tears welling up as he watched the constant rise and fall of his chest. He was breathing. He was alive. Tony hitched a sob as he watched him curl up in the tiny bed, his youthful face scrunching up as he started coughing like an eighty-year-old man. The coughing fit lasted for a painful minute before his head lulled back into sleep.

Tony watched him for a few moments longer, looking over every curve of his nose and angle of his body. It had been nine days since he had last seen his boy. Nine days in Tony’s counting, so God knows however many in the real world. He looked worlds better now.

Tony did not even know who he was or his name, lost to the pristine white walls of his cage. Only that he was precious to him, and he looked alive and safe and healthy – or healthy enough in the latest video. He looked closer at his breathing, knowing that something must be wrong with him from the uneven pattern and coarse coughs.

“Mr. Stark, I believe that we –”

“Shut _up_!” He glared over the top of the screen. “Shut up and just get out—”

“That’s it!” The man stood suddenly and towered over Tony. He scrambled back as fast he could but his back met the wall of the mouse cage almost immediately. The man swooped down, his hands grabbing for the tablet, and backhanded him swiftly, sending his head crashing into the wall.

“I have had enough of your attitude, Mr. Stark,” he seethed.

“No, I’m sorry, please,” Tony could only watch in helplessness as two masked figures descended on the sleeping boy, pulling him out of his peaceful slumber and rickety bed. He cried out in a hoarse voice as they beat down his struggles with their armored fists. Tony tried to say something but only whimper as the once pale flesh bloomed in red and blue.

The man still breathed heavily above him, the white peaking out from under his coat but not even bothering to fix it. On the screen, Tony watched as one of the figures pulled out a knife and the other held the boy’s arms.

“No . . .” he whispered. “I’m sorry. Don’t hurt him. Please.”

“That’ll be another nine days, Mr. Stark,” the man pulled screen out of his weak grip and stalked out the hall. The heavy door slid shut behind him. In the room, only the sound of water dripping could be heard.


	2. Isolation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony is forced to deal with a critically injured Peter through his anxiety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 1: Shaky Hands

**Shaky Hands**

Tony felt blood pounding against the insides of his head. It was if his skull was about to burst open any second now. He paused for a moment and let out a huge, heaving breath, hacking out his lungs.

Peter shifted in his arms at the commotion, murmuring clips of words. Tony looked down at his pale face and trembling voice and all at once felt his strength resurge in him. He squared his shoulders and readjusted Peter’s dead weight and set off again.

Sirens wailed in the distance as Tony put his body to an extreme test. He felt reverberations in the earth under his feet echoing throughout the city. Five minutes. Five minutes was all the time it had taken for Tony to fly to Brooklyn Bridge in his Monday morning stupor, and for Peter to throw himself in front of a live attacker.

Tony could almost feel his pulse buzzing, not from the strain he was under but from the mere memory of what he had stumbled across minutes ago – a bleeding and dying kid on the sidewalks of New York.

He had wasted no time in rushing to Peter’s side and cradling his limp body. He had winced when he saw pieces of shrapnel clearly embedded in the teen’s head. Blood ran from his neck and chest in rivulets, and the concrete underneath his legs was dyed a bright red. At one point Tony thought he could see bone, and that was enough for it to be too much.

“Tony!”

He heard Steve calling from behind but paid him no mind. A wave of civilians overcame the Captain, diverting his attention from his two friends and back to the crowd.

“Tony, please, wait!”

Tony did not wait – how could he wait? What was Steve thinking? His suit lay in tatters underneath the water and his son lay in shambles in his arms. Tony had already called back to the Tower. He knew help would be there soon.

“Peter,” he called. “Peter, can you stay awake for me, kiddo? We’re almost there now.”

The boy only moaned in response, his head rolling to rest on Tony’s shoulder. The man winced as he saw the damage done to his head. A large cut seared through his forehead, and his scalp had been hit with part of what looked like a bomb blast.

Tony paused and set the body down on the ground. There was no time to get to help now. The sirens and screams echoed from far away. He analyzed Peter’s blank face, covered in blood and dirt and gravel. Tony wiped it clean with his sleeve, checking for a pulse.

Tony breathed a sigh of relief when he saw his vitals were fine. He was no doctor, but he was, after all, Tony Stark. His eyes automatically located the wound at the boy’s hip. Gunshot wound, he zeroed in. It seemed as if this was only a graze from a bullet, not a serious wound. His eyes drifted over to the puddle of blood forming around Peter’s chest. This would need a real doctor.

But the blood was pooling and covering the ground that was just seconds ago clear. The street was empty and for that Tony thanked Thor’s gods. He felt his pockets for anything he had that might be useful, but found nothing as he expected. He had been lounging in when he had gotten the call. There was no time to pack anything.

He stood and scanned the street. It had been evacuated and abandoned already. The door of a nearby salon swung open in the wind. Tony looked through the rest of the buildings, and hopped over the nearest car to the sidewalk.

Boutique, investment firm, restaurant . . . Tony stopped as he reached a bright blue sign. _Sinclair Dental _it flashed. Without hesitating, he grabbed a piece of debris from the road and smashed it through the front glass. As it rained down upon him, he hurriedly let himself into the office.

Tony found the dental room easily enough. Antiseptic, laughing gas – could he use that? Forgetting the painkillers, Tony grabbed the medical supplies and first aid kit and dashed back out to Peter.

“Peter!” He collapsed in front of the teen. “Peter, wake up. I’m here now, kid.”

He tried to shake his limp body awake, but only received more groans. Tony sighed and cut the boy’s Spiderman suit open. It would be a pain to fix later but he couldn’t focus on that now. Instead, as the red pulled away from his chest, Tony saw the worrisome gash that fountained blood.

“Kid, come on, don’t leave me hanging here,” he pleaded as his hands busied themselves in the kit.

“Alright, I didn’t go to medical school, okay? You’ve gotta work with what I’m giving you here,” Tony rambled as finished setting up his supplies.

He wiped down the wound as best as he could and set to work. His hands shook as he held the needle and thread to the cold, clammy skin.

“Okay, let’s see how this goes.” He took a deep breath and tentatively began to move his hands. They shook so bad he almost had to stop, afraid of messing Peter up even more.

Tony paused to take a moment and calm himself. This was no time to be panicking over his university biology courses he should have paid more attention in. Peter was bleeding out all over a sidewalk and there was no one else to help. It was up to Tony now.

“Stay with me, kid,” Tony pleaded as he finished up the chest wound. His hands trembled even more violently as he began working on his brutally hit head.

Tony worked the tweezers delicately as he ghosted over the broken skin. Shards of shrapnel stuck out at him. Those were easy enough, but it was the tiny pieces, the slivers that caught his attention. He tried to focus his mind on them but his hands had a mind of their own. Although they had stopped shaking, he felt suddenly insecure in his own unsteady hands.

Peter stirred and coughed weakly underneath him. Tony paused his ministrations to look hopefully down at the boy.

“Mm, M’ster Stark?” He mumbled with his eyes half-closed.

Tony couldn’t help but smile as he wrapped gauze around the boy’s battered head.

“I’m here, kid,” he assured. “Better call me Dr. Stark from now on.”

Peter laughed weakly, then coughed violently as his breath caught with blood in his throat. Tony thumped his chest worriedly as he hacked through the fit.

“Come on, Peter, Bruce is only a few minutes away,” he helped him to sit up against the side of a car.

“He’s coming ‘ere now,” Peter murmured. “Can hear him.”

“Yeah, see the thing is, you have to live until he gets here,” Tony jibed. He couldn’t wait to get home and lecture the living hell out of him for trying to do this job alone.

“Not now,” Peter groaned. “Just let me have a moment, Mr. Stark – Dr. Stark. I’ll listen to your whining later.”


End file.
